


We Live, We Die

by HewerOfCaves



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Everybody Loves Fingon, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Nirnaeth Arnoediad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:19:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27606847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HewerOfCaves/pseuds/HewerOfCaves
Summary: Fingon was dead.Fingon.Fingon who brought Maedhros back to them, who came to their aid in Alqualondë. Fingon, his king, his little cousin.The Fëanorians receive the news of Fingon's death.
Relationships: Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 28
Kudos: 57





	We Live, We Die

Whatever weak light the new moon gave barely penetrated the thick barrier of tall trees, but the camp lights were bright enough that Maglor and his people could find their way back with little effort. A few more steps, and Maglor noticed with worry that there was some commotion in the camp.

His steps quickened. He peered into the darkness and saw through the trees a newcomer that his brothers were talking to. The elf was disheveled and injured by the look of it, swaying on her feet but still speaking rapidly. Immediately Maglor knew that she had brought news from the western host. He was almost running now. He wanted to be there for the news, even if he thought he knew what to expect.

The western host must have been decimated, most of the fighters dead or enslaved. Still, Maglor hoped against hope that there could be something else. Maybe someone escaped, someone survived, someone was saved by a miracle.

The messenger paused to catch her breath. Maedhros asked something, his face impassive. Maglor couldn’t hear him, but he knew the question.

_What about the King?_

The soldier shook her head. Maglor froze. He must have misunderstood. Maybe Maedhros had asked something else because it couldn’t be, it couldn’t…

The newcomer reached inside her satchel, took out a piece of rusty cloth and gave it to Maedhros. For a moment, Maglor was confused, then he understood. The fabric was blue, had been blue, had been a piece of Fingon’s blue and silver banner.

He didn’t realize how he had started running, how he had started crying. His mind was still fighting against the truth, rejecting it, but he couldn’t escape it forever.

Fingon was dead. _Fingon._ Fingon who brought Maedhros back to them, who came to their aid in Alqualondë. Fingon, his king, his little cousin.

Maglor wiped away his tears. Still running, he saw Celegorm slumped on the ground, his head bowed. Curufin had his hand on his brother’s shoulder and had leaned over him, whispering something. The twins were weeping in each other’s arms. Caranthir, red in the face, was yelling at the poor messenger. Maedhros was motionless, staring at the cloth. When he raised his hand, Caranthir immediately fell silent. Maedhros thanked the soldier, sent her to the healers and went away without another word.

After reaching the camp, Maglor immediately went to his elder brother. He found Maedhros sitting cross-legged in a far corner of the camp, away from everyone else. Maglor paused before making his presence known to get his voice and expression under control. Then he approached.

The piece of Fingon’s banner rested on Maedhros’s neatly folded, tattered cloak. Maedhros was staring at it. He didn’t look at Maglor when his brother sat down next to him.

“You heard,” Maedhros said.

Maglor nodded and clasped Maedhros’s shoulder.

“What news from the Laiquendi?” Maedhros asked, his look still fixed on the bloodstained cloth.

Maglor was taken aback for a moment, though on second thought, the question wasn’t exactly surprising.

“They do not mind our presence in the woods,” he reported. “As long as we are respectful and do not disturb them too much, we are welcome to stay. In any case, I think you should meet them too.”

“I will,” Maedhros said. His tone was practical, and it didn’t change as he continued: “We need to have a ceremony. For the fallen. For Fingon too. A separate one, I believe. He was our King. Do you think the Laiquendi will agree if we bury him here?”

“I do not see why not. But…” Maglor hesitated. “What are we going to bury?”

Maedhros nodded towards the piece of Fingon’s banner. “There is nothing else. Ard-galen is under the Enemy’s control as the entire North. Even if we were able to reach the battlefield unnoticed, I doubt we could find anything to bury. I was told he is unrecognizable. They beat him into the dust.”

Maglor flinched. He wanted to say something comforting, but his throat constricted, and he had to stay silent not to betray his turmoil.

“Somewhere on the bank of the little river north from here,” Maedhros continued conversationally. “What do you think?”

Maglor cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “There were some beautiful spots.”

“They will do nicely. He would like them.”

“He would.”

“Very well, then. That is all. Go and rest. We will meet the Laiquendi again tomorrow to discuss the details.”

Maglor didn’t move. He didn’t want to leave Maedhros alone at this dark hour. He didn’t want to be alone. But he could go and mourn with the rest of his brothers, while Maedhros wouldn’t, he knew.

“Go,” Maedhros said. “Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.”

Maglor stood with a heavy heart. He took a couple of steps, then stopped and turned.

“Will you be all right?” he asked quietly.

Maedhros raised his head and looked at his brother, tearing his gaze away from Fingon’s banner for the first time. He smiled a terrible, desperate smile.

“Yes,” he said. “I always am, aren’t I?”


End file.
